Рита Браун - Outfoxed

Twenty couple hounds, forty individuals, had been carried in their special trailer to Beveridge Hundred, an old plantation five miles west of Sister’s house as the crow flies.

But today it wasn’t the crow flying, it was the hounds. Shaker cast them in the classic triangle cast. Sending hounds on their mission was truly like a fisherman casting his net. Hence, the term “cast.” Most huntsmen threw their hounds straight into the wind, figuring the scent would carry and they’d be off in a hurry. That was a better idea for flat country than for the hills, ravines, pastures, and deep creeks of Jefferson Hunt territory. Shaker liked to give his hounds about fifteen minutes to settle; then he’d cut the corner and move up the side of the triangle into the wind. He planned his hunt and hunted his plan, always dividing the territory to be hunted into a series of triangles.

The pack struck quickly, running straight. Their quarry ran perhaps seven to ten minutes ahead. The scent held on the still-wet earth. The light shone scarlet as the sun’s rim loomed over the horizon.

Shaker doubled his blasts as he plunged into a stand of black birches, shot out into the thirty-acre hay field just as hounds crossed over the middle of the cut field.

Sister galloped about fifty yards behind Shaker. He soared over the tiger trap; Sister and Lafayette easily cleared the big jump. Cody made it, as did Fontaine, who kept his eyes glued to Cody’s perfect butt in the saddle.

Gunsmoke, Fontaine’s half-bred, thought the horse Cody was trying for Fontaine, Keepsake, a rangy thoroughbred, was doing great so far. But then thoroughbreds always did better when the field was moving fast.

Marty, Crawford, and finally Bobby safely landed in the hay field.

Three visitors from Bull Run Hunt kept up with the small Tuesday group.

At the edge of the hay field the hounds split. Cora headed left toward The Rocks, an outcropping of boulders, while Archie headed right through double-lined rows of cedars into another hay field.

“Archie, two foxes. Stick with me,” Cora called, her bel canto lilt floating over the mists still not rising.

This brought Archie’s head up.

Dragon shot his mouth off. “This scent is hot.”

“Yes it is, son, but if the fox can split us, we’ll wind up in East Jesus, the whips will be going in two directions, and each fox can further mislead us. We’re on Target. They’re on Aunt Netty.” Archie knew his foxes by the patterns they ran. “Reds.”

“I’m not leaving this scent,” Dragon howled, nose to the ground. “Cora’s an old bitch, anyway.”

“Good way to get drafted out, you fool.” Archie turned, flat out now, belly low to the ground, tail stretched out behind him as he streaked for Cora.

Without hesitation the other hounds, including Diana on her first flaming run, followed Archie. He cut across the hay field, crawled under the old wire cow fence, catapulting over the sunken farm road worn down by three hundred years of use. With one bound he was over the loose stone wall, heading, flying, flashing down to The Rocks.

Moving in the opposite direction, Dragon touched the earth with his nose, bawled for all he was worth, and charged into a smaller pasture. Hay rolled in large round bales dotted the verdant expanse.

“Moron!” a taunting voice called.

Dragon jerked his head up. Sitting on top of the hay round were Target and Reynard, magnificent, shining, as red as the scarlet sunrise.

“I’ll tear you to shreds!” Dragon bared his fangs, bouncing toward father and son.

“You fierce beast.” Target, falsetto-voiced, mocked him, while Reynard watched the older, wiser fox sucker in the hound.

When Dragon was two strides from the hay round, Target casually jumped down, darting into a burrow in the bale. Reynard followed. His tail flicked into this makeshift den just as Target skidded around the bale.

Growling, saliva dripping, Dragon bumped into the bale as his hind end gave out under him from the force of his sharp turn. His head nearly hit the ground, his two front legs splayed out. He was eyeball to eyeball with a mature copperhead still drowsy and not amused.

Like lightning the snake struck, sinking her fangs, almost as large as Dragon’s, into his left cheek. He shook his head but she didn’t let go until she’d released her venom to the last drop.

“Oh, God, it hurts,” Dragon screamed as the snake finally let go.

“Moron.” Target laughed as Dragon, weeping, tried to outrun the pain. At least he had sense enough to go for the sound of the hounds, maybe a mile off by now.

Hounds, horses, huntsman were stymied at The Rocks, water spilling down over the sides in a gentle waterfall.

Aunt Netty, on a ledge behind the waterfall, cleaned her claws embedded with mud. She’d run over the rocks leading up to the small waterfall. Her scent would last for only a few moments on the rock but the morning was damp, the mists were low, and the hounds were close. To be safe she ducked behind the water. She didn’t mind getting a little wet. She knew her scent had been wiped out by the waterfall.

Cora, a trifle overweight, panted. “Aunt Netty works her magic act.”

In the distance they could hear Bobby Franklin, who’d fallen far behind, talk to his horse, Oreo. “Not so fast. Not so fast. I hate running on rock!”

“Stop worrying, you fat pig,” the horse replied. “My sense of balance is better than yours.”

“Everyone in one piece?” Sister laughingly asked.

“Is it always like this?” one of the visitors asked.

“Sure,” Fontaine lied, winking.

A rustling noise coming through the woods captured their attention. Dragon joined them in a few moments. He shook his head, he cried, he rolled over.

Shaker dismounted as Sister held his reins. “Snakebite,” he tersely informed her.

“His head will blow up like a pumpkin,” Cody said.

“Killed my Jack Russell. Remember Darth Vader?” Fontaine said that, which, under the circumstances, was not a helpful recollection.

Crawford, hoping for brownie points, dismounted from Czapaka. He walked over to Shaker, who didn’t look up but kept his gaze on Dragon.

“I can throw the hound over my saddle.”

“No need,” Shaker replied evenly.

“He’s better off walking back.” Douglas Kinser had ridden in from his outpost.

“Sister, do you mind if I have Doug walk Dragon back?”

“No. Betty’s out on your left. Can you get by with one whip?”

“Two’s better.”

“I’ll go.” Cody smiled.

“No, you won’t. I haven’t bought that horse yet, and who knows what you’ll get into. It’s already been a wild morning,” Fontaine commanded.

“I’ll whip. I’m not the best rider in the world but I can do it. I know most of the hounds by sight,” Marty volunteered.

“Good.”

“Fine.” Shaker seconded Sister. “You take the right. Three blasts, short and high of equal duration, means come in to me. You know the other signals?”

“Well, Shaker, if I don’t you all can come out and find me. Just don’t leave me out until sundown.”

Crawford, jealous of Marty for the chance to whip, mounted up. He smiled at her but was secretly miserable that he wasn’t a strong enough rider to whip. And he hadn’t a clue as to how to rate hounds. He thought all a whip had to do was ride hard. In Crawford’s case, ignorance was bliss. How he longed to say at some fancy Virginia party, “Oh, yes, I whip-in at Jefferson Hunt.” It would be even more delicious to drop the information into a cocktail party in Manhattan. They’d think it had something to do with sexual practices. He’d then get to fire off a double entendre or two, after which he could declaim about foxhunting.